Versified from the Prose of a Young Lady
It’s very hard!--and so it is,To live in such a row,And witness this that every MissBut me, has got a Beau.For Love goes calling up and down,But here he seems to shun;I’m sure he has been asked enoughTo call at Number One!
I’m sick of all the double knocksThat come to Number Four!At Number Three, I often seeA Lover at the door:And one in blue, at Number Two,Calls daily like a dun,--It’s very hard they come so near,And not to Number One!
Miss Bell I hear has got a dearExactly to her mind,By sitting at the window paneWithout a bit of blind;But I go in the balcony,Which she has never done,Yet arts that thrive at Number FiveDon’t take at Number One!
’Tis hard with plenty in the street,And plenty passing by,--There’s nice young men at Number Ten,But only rather shy;And Mrs. Smith across the wayHas got a grown-up son,But la! he hardly seems to knowThere is a Number One!
There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,But he’s intent on pelf,And though he’s pious, will not loveHis neighbour as himself.At Number Seven there was a sale--The goods had quite a run!And here I’ve got my single lotOn hand at Number One!
My mother often sits at workAnd talks of props and stays,And what a comfort I shall beIn her declining days.The very maids about the houseHave set me down a nun;The sweethearts all belong to themThat call at Number One!
Once only when the flue took fire,One Friday afternoon,Young Mr. Long came kindly inAnd told me not to swoon:Why can’t he come again withoutThe Phœnix and the Sun!We cannot always have a flueOn fire at Number One!
I am not old! I am not plain!Nor awkward in my gait--I am not crooked, like the brideThat went from Number Eight:I’m sure white satin made her lookAs brown as any bun--But even beauty has no chance,I think, at Number One!
At Number Six they say Miss RoseHas slain a score of hearts,And Cupid, for her sake, has beenQuite prodigal of darts.The Imp they show with bended bow,I wish he had a gun!But if he had, he’d never deignTo shoot with Number One.
It’s very hard, and so it is,To live in such a row!And here’s a ballad singer comeTo aggravate my woe.Oh take away your foolish songAnd tones enough to stun--There is “Nae luck about the house,”I know, at Number One!
Words in this poem
- pane n.
- The narrow edge of a hammer head. See Peen. [F. panne.]
- pelf n.
- Money; riches; lucre; gain; -- generally conveying the idea of something ill-gotten or worthless. It has no plural. [OE. pelfir booty, OF. pelfre, akin to pelfrer to plunder, and perh. to E. pillage. Cf. Pilfer.]
- neighbour v. i.
- To dwell in the vicinity; to be a neighbor, or in the neighborhood; to be near.
- props n.
- A game of chance, in which four sea shells, each called a prop, are used instead of dice.
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- afternoon n.
- The part of the day which follows noon, between noon and evening.
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- cupid
- The god of love, son of Venus; usually represented as a naked, winged boy with bow and arrow. [L.Cupido, fr. cupido desire, desire of love, fr. cupidus. See Cupidity.]
- deign v. t.
- To esteem worthy; to consider worth notice; -- opposed to disdain. [OE. deinen, deignen, OF. degner, deigner, daigner, F. daigner, fr. L. dignari to deem worthy, deign, fr. dignus worthy; akin to decere to be fitting. See Decent]
- aggravate v. t.
- To make heavy or heavier; to add to; to increase. [L. aggravatus, p. p. of aggravare. See Aggrieve.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Versified from the Prose of a Young Lady is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Comic Poems of Thomas Hood A New and Complete Edition, Project Gutenberg ebook #56712; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Thomas Hood, Versified from the Prose of a Young Lady, in Poems (1827–1845), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #56712, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hood-poems/versified-from-the-prose-of-a-young-lady.html, id L06727.
Form and metre
Versified from the Prose of a Young Lady is 80 lines in 10 stanzas of 8 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 94%). 99% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.0 syllables. 2 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 31% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-A-B-B is · rowA · miss · beauA · down · shunB · enough · oneB
- 2 -A-A-B-B knocks · fourA · see · doorA · two · dunB · near · oneB
- 3 -A-A-B-B dear · mindA · pane · blindA · balcony · doneB · five · oneB
- 4 -A-A-B-B street · byA · ten · shyA · way · sonB · know · oneB
- 5 -A-A-B-B nine · pelfA · love · himselfA · sale · runB · lot · oneB
- 6 -A-A-B-B work · staysA · be · daysA · house · nunB · them · oneB
- 7 -AAA-B-B fire · afternoonA · inA · swoonA · without · sunB · flue · oneB
- 8 -A-A-B-B plain · gaitA · bride · eightA · look · bunB · chance · oneB
- 9 -ABA-B-B rose · heartsA · beenB · dartsA · bow · gunB · deign · oneB
- 10 -A-A-B-B is · rowA · come · woeA · song · stunB · house · oneB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| It’s very hard!--and so it is, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| To live in such a row, | 6 | ······ |
| And witness this that every Miss | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| But me, has got a Beau. | 6 | ······ |
| For Love goes calling up and down, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| But here he seems to shun; | 6 | ······ |
| I’m sure he has been asked enough | 8 | ······˘/ |
| To call at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| I’m sick of all the double knocks | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| That come to Number Four! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| At Number Three, I often see | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| A Lover at the door: | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| And one in blue, at Number Two, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Calls daily like a dun,-- | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| It’s very hard they come so near, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| And not to Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Miss Bell I hear has got a dear | 8 | ········ |
| Exactly to her mind, | 6 | ˘/˘··· |
| By sitting at the window pane | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Without a bit of blind; | 6 | ······ |
| But I go in the balcony, | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| Which she has never done, | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Yet arts that thrive at Number Five | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Don’t take at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| ’Tis hard with plenty in the street, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And plenty passing by,-- | 6 | ·/˘/˘· |
| There’s nice young men at Number Ten, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| But only rather shy; | 6 | ·/˘/˘· |
| And Mrs. Smith across the way | 8 | ·/˘·˘/·· |
| Has got a grown-up son, | 6 | ······ |
| But la! he hardly seems to know | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| There is a Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| But he’s intent on pelf, | 6 | ··˘/·· |
| And though he’s pious, will not love | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| His neighbour as himself. | 6 | ·/˘·˘/ |
| At Number Seven there was a sale-- | 8 | ·/˘/···· |
| The goods had quite a run! | 6 | ······ |
| And here I’ve got my single lot | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| On hand at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| My mother often sits at work | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| And talks of props and stays, | 6 | ······ |
| And what a comfort I shall be | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| In her declining days. | 6 | ··˘/˘· |
| The very maids about the house | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Have set me down a nun; | 6 | ······ |
| The sweethearts all belong to them | 8 | ·/··˘/·· |
| That call at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Once only when the flue took fire, | 9 | ·/˘····/˘ |
| One Friday afternoon, | 6 | ·/˘·˘/ |
| Young Mr. Long came kindly in | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| And told me not to swoon: | 6 | ······ |
| Why can’t he come again without | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| The Phœnix and the Sun! | 6 | ······ |
| We cannot always have a flue | 8 | ·/˘/···· |
| On fire at Number One! | 7 | ·/˘·/˘· |
| I am not old! I am not plain! | 8 | ········ |
| Nor awkward in my gait-- | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| I am not crooked, like the bride | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| That went from Number Eight: | 6 | ···/˘· |
| I’m sure white satin made her look | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| As brown as any bun-- | 6 | ···/˘· |
| But even beauty has no chance, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| I think, at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
| At Number Six they say Miss Rose | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Has slain a score of hearts, | 6 | ······ |
| And Cupid, for her sake, has been | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Quite prodigal of darts. | 6 | ·/˘˘·· |
| The Imp they show with bended bow, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| I wish he had a gun! | 6 | ······ |
| But if he had, he’d never deign | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| To shoot with Number One. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| It’s very hard, and so it is, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| To live in such a row! | 6 | ······ |
| And here’s a ballad singer come | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| To aggravate my woe. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| Oh take away your foolish song | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| And tones enough to stun-- | 6 | ··˘/·· |
| There is “Nae luck about the house,” | 8 | ········ |
| I know, at Number One! | 6 | ···/˘· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.